Funny about that. The smell, I mean. Looking back at those childhood days, it seems fairly evident that I must have been nosing around in search of my dead mother, unconsciously associating the sweet sachet with the bygone sweetness of maternal love. I wasn't two yet when she died, hardly out of the infant stage but still old enough to be already conditioned to the sweet-smelling shelter and security of her loving arms. As an only child then, lovelorn and lonely – brought up by a busy father and an endless succession of maids and housekeepers – was it any wonder that I pawed through silk-soft dresser drawers for a sniff of that lost intimacy? There was always just one grown-up lady living at our house, the maidservant of the moment, the one and only possible source of that nice dreamy woman-smell; was it any wonder that I usually adored her and curried favor like a pet pussycat starved for affection?

I curried well, too. The door to the maid's quarters was seldom locked against a poor little motherless waif, the room as familiar to me as my own. A very cozy bedroom, small but attractively furnished and decorated – and with a private adjoining bath, no less, all in back of the kitchen, as comfortable as anything upstairs and a lot more convenient. Even a telephone, an extension phone right at her elbow in case my father called from the office or on one of his out-of-town business trips. And a good color TV set, naturally, since that was his business, the biggest and best television shop-in the county. We weren't exactly rich, but were still unable to afford more than one sleep-in servant, so dear Bernadette had to put in a full day's work to earn her keep. But it didn't seem to bother her, except maybe when she fell behind in the housecleaning and had to scold me for getting under her feet. Nor did it bother me either, considering how gentle her scoldings were, always with a mock frown and a twinkle in her eye.